Winter Rose
by seasame smiles
Summary: He waits for a sun that won't rise. Oh dear.


_Winter Rose_

'_what a shame we all became such fragile, broken things_'  
-let the flames begin, paramore.

**i.**

It all implodes in this one second that she will always remember – the world darkened, held its breath before it _broke_ into these pretty little pieces that scattered around her bare feet (each step cuts her feet like the glass that rained down on them after _bombarda, expulso, confringo_ rained from the grey sky) – and eyes watch her, worried, curious, dead, as she falls.

Her body hits the ground with a thump, just another body among hundreds – all dead, all dead, _oh dear_ – but her eyes don't, can't, close. One lone tear falls down her face as those jagged pieces stab her through the back and rip her heart into shreds.

_Fragile_, they whisper, _broken_.

Not broken. _Strong_. She's strong. She has to be. She's _Hermione_, one third of the Golden Trio (but it's not golden anymore when gold tarnishes and trio becomes duo in blazing glory and remorseless killing. _Oh dear_.)

Above her, dawn fades to morning and her dreams fade along with it.

**ii.**

Fire always fizzles out.

His hair, strands of blazing fire stitched to his freckly scalp, fizzle and fade into white ash. Blue eyes age and droop – he is just a tired old man, lost and lonely and forever remembering all these beautiful memories – but they still see the world with dark scrutiny. Weathered fingers glide on equally weathered stone, the name lost in time and the face behind that forgotten name fading at the edges but Ron remembers the man who stood against the dark and burned so beautifully bright.

_Ring-a-ring-a-roses…_

He also remembers time stopping, his heart pounding as he stared, stared, stared as the world's fate was held on a knife's edge, dangling, dangling – and falling, falling.

Oh dear.

_They all fall down…_

A hand rests on his shoulder. He is not alone, (but he _is_; there's this thick wall of desolation that covers and swarms on him, suffocating and overbearing and it hurts, merlin it _hurts_..) and her chocolate eyes are staring, broken and fractured but there's understanding sewed in with thick cords that tear more than heal – and Ron understands that, because they used the same cord to sew up the hole in his heart (it still doesn't beat quite right but _it's okay, he's okay_).

United, they stand suspended from time as it begins to snow.

**iii.**

Winter comes too soon.

He hates the way the cold seeps too far into his bones, leaving him with this forever there chill that is almost unbearable. There is no warmth, no matter how close he sits to the fire – and, honestly, if he sits any closer, he'll get burned. But it's more than that. It's like the chill files into his brain, shutting off his happiness and leaving him this stone monster that can only look and never appreciate.

It's a curse. Looking but never touching. He's afraid – his touch is like poison, spreading and infecting and killing and all he can remember are fleeting imprints of feeling, but they're fading fast and he's lonely, too.

He expects summer to come soon, but it doesn't. He becomes a winter rose, finding his dew in tears each morning, forever waiting for the ice encasing him to melt but always coming up disappointed. They would watch if he'd let them see but he doesn't want them to see their hero so weak, so he hides behind his ice and longing, waiting for his sun to arrive (it won't, it won't).

He sits in his world of darkness and waits for a sun that won't rise.

**iv.**

He breaths in. Breaths out.

"I'm still alive."

Breaths in. Breaths out.

Closes his eyes (the world burns his eyes too much).

"No… no, you're not."

_Oh dear._

* * *

'kay, the basic story: Harry dies in the final battle (Hermione, **part i**) and is eventually forgotten by society (Ron, **part** **ii**) while Harry's ghost wanders the earth alone, unable to touch anything and thinking he's cursed, but alive(Harry, **part iii**) until the revelation that he is actually dead occurs (Harry,** part iv**).

Screwed up? Yes, but I enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Let me know what you think.


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